“Evy?”
I concentrated on breathing, on keeping those memories at bay, lest I break into unfixable pieces. I couldn’t acknowledge them, not while Wyatt held me in his arms. If I did, I would never see him, only the goblin. I wouldn’t feel Wyatt’s skin or taste his mouth or know his touch without remembering.
“Please, Evy, look at me.”
The anguish in his voice, so like what I’d heard as I lay dying, drew me out. I opened my eyes and blinked away a film of tears. His cheeks were flushed, twin roses of color that highlighted the tumultuous emotions warring in his eyes. His entire body seemed to vibrate.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
He blanched and, for the briefest moment, I thought he would burst into tears. “You’re sorry? Evy, no.”
“I want to, Wyatt.”
“It’s not your fault.”
Truth, in so many ways, and yet the simple platitude did something entirely unexpected. Instead of tamping down my emotions, I exploded into a rage. It bubbled up from a place I never knew existed, as scorching and destructive as magma. My face heated, and I pushed Wyatt away with shaking hands. He tumbled backward, unprepared, and fell on his ass with a surprised cry. I stood and stalked to the other side of the room, bare feet making unsatisfying slaps on the stone floor. I balled my fists, but could not stop them shaking.
“Evy—”
“Don’t tell me it’s not my fault, Wyatt,” I said, rounding to face him. “It
He didn’t move from the floor, frozen there by the fury of my outburst. I couldn’t read his expression, nor did I care to try. Fuck what he was feeling; it wasn’t about him. It wasn’t even about me. It was about the goddamned goblin and getting the goddamned thing out of my head.
“Do you remember the Halfies we took out last summer?” I asked, words streaming from my mouth. “Remember how one of them held me down and systematically broke every finger of my left hand? I healed; I moved on. Or the were-cat who stabbed me two years ago, or all the broken bones when I was pushed off a three-story building three Christmases ago?
“It’s what I do, Wyatt, I heal. I bounce back, and I go on with my life. Hell, this time I didn’t even have to heal. Fate just gave me a new body and said, ‘Have fun again, girlfriend.’ She was even cruel enough to give me one that insists on knowing how we fit together naked, and I can’t even kiss you without remembering that fucking goblin. Goddamnit!”
He slowly stood up, but smartly kept his distance. My fists ached to slam into something soft, and he was the only available target. I clenched and unclenched my hands, nails digging into my palms. The room tilted. I clung to my fury, the only lifeline keeping me from shattering.
“Why did I have to remember it?” I whispered—a plea to whatever gods existed to give me some answers. To help me understand why I’d traded oblivion for purgatory, and forgetfulness for the memories of a living Hell.
“I wish I could take it back,” Wyatt said. “All of it. Erase everything that happened in that closet, but I can’t.”
I snarled. “Why, so you can kiss me without triggering a flashback?”
“No, Evy. Because I couldn’t save you from it the first time, and because now I’m making you relive it. You don’t deserve this.”
“Maybe I do.”
His jaw dropped.
I didn’t give him a chance. “I’m a killer, Wyatt. I’ve done horrible things to living creatures, deserving of it or not. I shot an innocent man yesterday. I got Alex killed. I got the Owlkins wiped out. So many have died because of me, and I keep bouncing back. The unkillable Evy Stone. Why the hell do
“Don’t do this.” Wyatt crossed the room with long, purposeful strides. I retreated until my back hit the wall, hands up, ready to strike. He kept coming, stopping with only a foot’s distance between us, never touching me. I flinched, nowhere left to go.
“What Kelsa did to you?” he said. “You didn’t deserve it then, and you sure as hell don’t deserve it now. You’re a good person. You’ve saved lives, a hundred times as many as you’ve ever taken.”
I turned my head, fixing on a spot by the curtained tub. I didn’t want his placating words. I wanted to stew in my own rage, to give in to the despair in my heart. To mourn everything I’d lost.
He touched my cheek. I punched him in the mouth. My fist ached, and he was on the ground before I realized what I’d done. He stared up at me, a thin line of blood beading on his split lip. I watched the blood rise until it trickled down his chin. I couldn’t look away from what I’d done. Hurting someone I cared about out of anger. Blind rage, if I was honest with myself. I closed my eyes. Twin tears scorched down my cheeks. When I opened them again, he was starting to stand. At a safer distance.
“I think I deserved that,” he said.
I snorted. “I think I should have broken your nose.”
“Evy, you can break every bone in my body if it helps you forgive me, just please, don’t do this to yourself. What happened to you … it’s not like the other times. You were hurt, and then you died. You never got the chance to heal. It’s not something anyone, even you, bounces back from in a day. It takes time. You need time.”
My throat closed. “What if we don’t have any more time?”
“Then we take what we do have and live it. No more regretting what we can’t change.”
I finally met his eyes and looked into such depths of sincerity and affection that my knees buckled. Wyatt caught me around the waist. My rage was gone, stripped away by understanding, leaving exhaustion in its place. Strong arms looped beneath my legs and lifted me up, cradling me against his chest. I closed my eyes and pressed my face into his neck.
We were moving. Silk sheets fluttered around me, against my skin. The mattress sank. In my mind, his warmth turned to cold; dry and human skin to slick and oily skin.
He turned me onto my side, my back to him, then stretched out behind me. His left arm snaked beneath my head, a warm pillow. The other lay lightly across my right hip. I threaded my right hand through his left and held tight. His breath tickled my ear. We lay together for a while, not moving, not talking. Everything had been said. All that was left was this—tender moments in an underground paradise.
My tears dried. The soothing scents of the room relaxed my tension, and soon my breaths matched his.
We dozed a while, and I woke still in his arms. An innocent embrace that made me feel perfectly protected. I could have stayed like that for the rest of my afterlife … only I had to pee. He muttered in his sleep as I slipped out of the warm bed.
Our clothes were neatly stacked on the vanity stool, freshly laundered and dry. I was a bit unnerved by the idea of a sprite or gnome or whatever wandering in and leaving things. Still, I hadn’t expected to see those goo- drenched jeans again, and getting back into civilian clothes would make me feel more like a functioning Hunter, and less like a princess. They reminded me of what remained to be done aboveground.
I couldn’t sit down here and wait to die.
A quick search of the room made one thing abundantly clear about our hosts—the Fey don’t have toilets. The empty tub, however, had a drain. It wasn’t elegant, or even moderately sanitary, but I did my best, and then fetched my clothes.
I started tugging my jeans back on. One leg in, I realized I was being watched.
“You’re getting dressed?” Wyatt asked. Sleep made his voice thick, husky.
“As much as my inner goddess appreciates the compliments, I feel more comfortable in my own clothes. You?”
“I’m comfortable.”
“Suit yourself. Just get a move on.”
He sat up and scrubbed one hand through his tousled hair. “What for?”
“So we can talk to Amalie.”
A frown creased his forehead. “Talk to Amalie? For what?”
